From the time Rumbler had been readmitted to the clan at the age of two winters, the elders had pampered and coddled him, treating him like an adult. They asked for Rumbler’s opinion before making any major clan decisions, and spent a great deal of time teaching the boy about plants and animals, telling him the old stories over and over, and showing him how to draw Power from the earth and sky. The Turtle Nation had many stories about great dwarfs and their miraculous deeds. Most of those dwarfs had risked their lives to save their people. Rumbler knew that the Paint Rock elders expected no less of him.
“Besides,” Lamedeer added, “Cornhusk made no sense. If Jumping Badger were planning to attack us, why bring eighty warriors? He could overwhelm us with fifty. Our village is small. We have forty-two warriors when everyone is healthy, and no one is away hunting, or fishing. Why would Jumping Badger pull eighty warriors away from Walksalong Village for us?”
Red Pipe seemed to be pondering this. After several moments, he said, “It does seem unlikely. Taking so many warriors would leave his village, Walksalong village, almost defenseless.”
“Yes, Patron.”
Red Pipe reached down, took a piece of wood from the woodpile to his left, and placed it on the fire. Sparks crackled and spat. Golden glitters lifted into the sky. “I have spoken many times with old Starflower, one of the Walksalong matrons. She is too smart to do this.”
Lamedeer folded his arms around his knees, relieved that he would not have to send runners to nearby villages begging for help. Such begging embarrassed him, but more than that, he did not wish to use up favors before they truly needed them. Certainly not on the words of a notorious Trader like Cornhusk.
“Good day to you,” Briar said with a smile. Her youth and beauty always touched Lamedeer’s heart. Her long black hair shimmered in the wavering light of the flames.
“Good day, my sister,” Lamedeer said. “I see you have been out gathering wood. I hope you collected some for my fire, too. I have been engaged all day long with these silly rumors—”
Red Pipe interrupted, asking Rumbler, “How are you, my child?”
Rumbler’s black eyes seemed to expand. He stepped forward like a cat after prey, his moccasins silent. “What is it you wish to ask me, Patron?”
Red Pipe hesitated, then said, “We have heard some frightening news this day. We were wondering if you have Dreamed anything. Perhaps about an attack?”
Rumbler did not seem to breathe. After several moments, his head turned and his gaze fixed on his mother’s lodge. His dog, Stonecoat, dropped to his belly at Rumbler’s feet, whining softly.
Rumbler whispered, “Look.”
Red Pipe’s faded old eyes narrowed. He followed the boy’s gaze.
Briar dumped her load of wood, and brushed at the duff coating the front of her white cape. “What is it, Rumbler? What do you—”
“Who is he?”
Stonecoat barked.
Lamedeer, pulse pounding, rose to his feet and rested his hand on the deerbone stiletto tied to his belt. “Who?”
“That boy,” Rumbler said, almost too low to hear. “That little boy.”
Lamedeer stepped away from the fire, and circled around behind Red Pipe, guarding the old man’s back. “I see no one.” He looked questioningly at Red Pipe.
The patron shook his head. “Nor do I.”
Briar frowned and touched her son’s hair. “Rumbler, where is the boy?”
Rumbler just stared at nothing.
Red Pipe’s wrinkled lips worked. “Where does the boy come from, Rumbler? Is he one of the blessed ancestors? Or a Forest Spirit?”
Rumbler slowly lifted a foot and put it down a step closer to his mother’s lodge. “He says you mustn’t send runners, Patron. There will be no attack.”
Relief and fear mixed in Lamedeer’s chest. He and Red Pipe turned in unison to peer at each other. Briar studied their expressions.
“Who did you think would be attacking us?” Briar asked.
Lamedeer started to answer, but Rumbler let out a small dreadful, “No!”
Stonecoat yipped and jumped up to put his paws on Rumbler’s chest, peering intently into the dwarf boy’s wide eyes.
Rumbler did not even seem to see the dog. He stood like a carved wooden statue, his short arms and legs rigid, as if bracing for a hurricane. He whispered, “Why?,” and seemed to be listening to someone they could not hear.
Lamedeer gazed at the empty space between two lodges. Not even a breath of wind stirred the dead winter grasses.
“Rumbler?” Briar knelt beside her son. “What’s happening? Tell me.”
“Oh, Mother!” he wept. “They’re coming for us. It’s us they want!”